


Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered

by Dancey96



Series: We did not make a proper use of last winter [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky refers to himself as 'it' for a lot of the story, Canon Compliant, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Implied Non-Con, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, again because HYDRA, all the violence described is the same as what appears in the movie, because hydra, could also be considered Steve/Bucky but that doesn't actually happen for a while yet, disclaimer: I don't know Russian so please correct me if I'm wrong, other warnings: some medical stuff including use of an IV drip, the M/M relationship is implied Pierce/Bucky, this is really just adding details and context to canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22142218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancey96/pseuds/Dancey96
Summary: It wakes in a sudden wave of pain with a bone-deep chill.It knows nothing but—“Soldier?”“Ready to comply.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers
Series: We did not make a proper use of last winter [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1593721
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered

**Author's Note:**

> I may or may not have spent some time working on a multi-chaptered, post-TWS recovery fic that this is a prequel for...I'm waiting until I finish writing the longer fic before I start posting it so I can edit it properly which probably won't be done for a while yet, but I thought it was safe enough to post this now. It's really just the events of TWS from Bucky's perspective.
> 
> All titles in this series are derived from Thomas Paine's 'The American Crisis' (yes, the 18th Century pamphlet series about the American Revolution that mentions the summer soldier and the sunshine patriot, because I like a sprinkling of cliché every now and then).

It wakes in a sudden wave of pain with a bone-deep chill. It is surrounded by a bright light that makes it hard to keep its eyes open and it can’t breathe, the air too thick with liquid still dissipating in a cloud of vapour. A mechanical whirring releases it from the glass tube it’s encased in and allows the mist to spread outwards, breathable air soon filling its lungs. But it doesn’t dare make a sound, observing its surroundings in silence as it tries to determine the best course of action. 

That choice is taken when a man in a white lab coat approaches, flanked by two larger men in dark uniforms, heavily armed and expressionless. It is unhooked from the wires and tubes attached to its body and a small light flashes across its eyes. When the smaller man nods his approval the other two approach and unlatch the metal cuffs holding it upright, catching it by the arms when it drops under the sudden weight, its body too weak to support itself.

It’s dragged out of the room and into another. This one resembles a bank vault, the walls covered in safety deposit boxes and the door made up of thick metal bars. At its centre is a chair, surrounded by more men in white coats, computer screens, numerous wires, and with a metal halo hovering ominously above. Its gut tightens. Its heart falters. Its breathing quickens. On some level it understands its reaction is indicative of an instinctive unease but it cannot determine why it occurs nor do anything about it. It doesn’t resist when they place it in the chair and it accepts the rubber bite guard they press in its mouth. It lets the clamps close around its arms and watches the metal ring lower over its head, remaining still when the halo tightens its metallic hold on its face. And then it screams when it sends a wave of energy through its brain that feels like fire. Its vision fades to black but there is no reprieve of unconsciousness, it remains blind but present throughout the torture until it forgets what was happening the moment it all ceases and it falls silent again. 

It refocuses as the metal loop retracts, breathing heavily as its body continues to shudder and twitch. It is so confused. The strangers around it keep their distance, the bars to its left creaking as the door swings open and a blonde man with an aged face enters. It feels a hesitant sense of ease at the sight of him.

“Желание,” [ _Longing_ ] he begins in a clear voice and it yanks something inside its head. “Ржавый. Семнадцать. Рассвет. Печь. Девять. Доброкачественные. Возвращение домой. Один. Грузовой вагон.” [ _Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight car._ ]

Then nothing.

Its mind is blank.

It knows nothing but—

“Soldier?”

“Ready to comply.”

⁂

It listens as the agents report back over the comms system.

“In pursuit of target.”

“Target has been engaged.”

“Target surrounded.”

“Firing in three, two, one.”

“Get the ram.”

“Target is returning fire.”

“We are in pursuit.”

From its perch on the roof of a nearby building, it watches the black Chevrolet truck riddled with bullet holes as it flees, pushing through civilian traffic with evasive manoeuvres and colliding with the pursuing agents. It scales its way down the building as the vehicle heads closer, reaching the sidewalk in time to watch it break hard and turn in its direction, the two police cars with their agents driving crashing into a passing semi-truck. 

It’s time to engage.

It walks out into the middle of the road, raising a modified MK 13 to fire an explosive disc underneath the approaching vehicle. The disc magnetises and locks into place, flipping the Chevrolet forward as it goes off. Sidestepping the flaming vehicle, it watches it gradually slide to a stop, upside down, before it approaches at a calm pace. It tears the door away but the target is nowhere in sight, a singed hole left in his absence that goes through the vehicle’s roof and the road beneath, leading to the sewer below. 

It has failed.

No, not yet.

“Soldier is in pursuit,” it murmurs into the comms link, ducking inside the overturned vehicle and down the hole. Its feet splash in the filthy water below but it is unphased. It begins to stalk through the maze of underground caverns, ignoring the sounds of rats and the smell of waste. It can hear shuffling footsteps in the distance and stalks in that direction until the sound suddenly stops. The trail goes cold.

It has failed.

It can’t fail.

It tries to decide on the next move.

“Where’s the Asset?”

“Underground, in pursuit.”

“We don’t have time for this. Fury will resurface eventually. We need to head back to base.”

It is called back to the wreckage it left on 17th Avenue. It only hesitates for a moment before following the orders.

It has failed.

They direct it into an armoured truck, giving it a wide berth where it is seated in the back corner. It was the same on the way to the site. The team appears more comfortable the less imposing its presence is, so it sits by itself, eyes cast downwards and completely silent. It suits it fine; proximity to handlers will only bring forth punishment after failing a mission. They return to the base where it gives a mission report and undergoes a brief physical evaluation for injuries, then is left in a room, completely bare aside from a metal table it is placed on and the camera in the far corner of the ceiling. They are observing it. It suspects they are deciding how to deal with its failure. It will accept whatever punishment is dealt.

It hasn’t a choice.

A man in a button-up shirt and bowtie enters with the equipment for an IV drip. Nutrients, it assumes. It doubts they would bother feeding it; this is much more efficient than the liquid meal. A subtle glance at the label on the bag confirms its guess. Not that it would protest if it was something else. A flash in its mind makes it think they’ve done something similar before, flushed its veins with some sort of poison when its performance was not up to standard. When it deserved it. It shouldn’t be thinking at all, they might punish it for that too.

They leave it there, sitting on a metal bench with an IV pumping energy into its veins for an indeterminate amount of time. It is not permitted to move until ordered to, so there is no use in keeping track of the hours that pass. It falls into something close to a trance, the type of stillness it strives for lying behind a sniper rifle in wait for hours—sometimes days—at a time. It finds it easier to function when its mind is blank. Optimal functioning is what they want. It can do that. It is the Asset, the Soldier. The Fist of HYDRA, as one team member had murmured on the way back to base.

“The greatest assassin of this century,” one added.

“Pierce’s favourite wind-up toy,” chuckled another.

It would be a good Asset for its handler.

When it is finally summoned it’s to a control room where reports are coming in that the target has broken into “Cap’s place”. If that is a code phrase, it is unknown to it.

It is not of its concern.

It is not punished, but instead placed back in the armoured truck and given new orders. Eliminate the target as planned then report directly to Pierce. They leave it to find a suitable location to surveil the dark apartment. There are no signs of movement inside.

It waits.

A figure on a motorcycle arrives at the building. It watches a tall man with broad shoulders and fair hair dismount the motorcycle and enter the complex. He is intercepted in the hallway by a blonde woman holding a basket of clothing. They converse. When they finally end their discussion the man’s expression hardens and he frowns at the apartment’s door before turning away again. He must be the owner of the place where the target is waiting and he knows someone is in there. He exits the building, walking around it until he is standing underneath the window of his living room and leaps, unnaturally high, to grab hold of the awning and hoist himself up there. It niggles at something in the back of its mind that makes its jaw clench. It ignores it.

The enhanced man balances on the edge of the window as he opens it carefully, sneaking inside his own apartment. It is unable to maintain visual surveillance as the man walks in between its sight lines but it assumes he makes it to where the target is seated. A light is turned on and then off. The man does not appear in the next window, stopping in the doorway leading to the next room. It knows where they are. It knows where the target must be. Waiting until the wind stills enough, its eye to the scope of the Barret M107A1, it shoots three times through the brick wall at different heights where the target’s torso would be, stepping to the edge of the building to look through the window and see his collapsed body—confirmed hit—before turning to leave. A moment later it hears a crash and realises it is being chased by the man. Running at full speed should be impossible for someone to keep up with, but this man is not like the others. He smashes his way through the office building below it, finally catching up as it leaps onto the roof of the next. A _woosh_ sounds from behind and it turns just in time to catch a metal disc that was thrown at its back. It can feel how strong it is under its hand, unable to dent it even with the metal digits. It lets its eyes linger on the man, curious about this enhanced stranger and his odd weapon, then sends the disc back with a hard throw and disappears before they can engage further.

Its orders were to return to its handler, not to explore the whims it shouldn’t have in the first place.

So it goes to report the success of its mission. 

Fury, Nicholas J.

Terminated.

⁂

Secretary Pierce lives on his own in a large house in a lavish neighbourhood with standard security protocols for a HYDRA leader’s residence that do little to impact its ability to enter undetected. Pierce is not home yet, but the housekeeper is still cleaning the bedrooms and she does not have clearance to know about its existence, so it chooses to scale the building until it reaches the second storey balcony, entering through the study. It unholsters a Glock to hold by its side—no witnesses—then edges around the mahogany desk and creeps out into the empty hallway. The lingering scent of various cleaning products emanates from the direction of the kitchen so it chooses to wait at the table in there, knowing the housekeeper will not return to the room she has already cleaned. It sets down the gun on the polished surface and waits, alone with its thoughts. It knows it isn’t supposed to have its own thoughts, but it feels like it’s had them before and shudders at the potential consequences, flinching from a sharp, electrifying pain it imagines.

But it has not been punished recently.

It cannot remember anything further back than yesterday. 

That seems significant, but it doesn’t know why.

To stop itself from contemplating what it could mean, it thinks of the new man instead, the one who chased after it. It had only gotten a brief look at him up close but there was something about his features that seemed oddly familiar. The conclusion it arrives at is the passing resemblance to its handler. It is easy to picture Pierce in his younger days with a strong draw and classically handsome features, very similar to the enhanced stranger’s. It could see Pierce leaning down with a pleased smile and golden hair parted neatly to the side. The image brings forth a sense of comfort. Of logic and order in the face of unsurety. Of calm after lashing out. Of rewards like a comforting caress of the cheek instead of the usual torturous deterrents. 

It inhales sharply.

It all feels too real but it couldn’t be, surely. 

The sound of footsteps approaching draws its attention, Pierce appearing in the kitchen wearing a soft sweatshirt and slippers. He opens the fridge and pulls out a carton before he notices the figure seated at the table. When he does his expression betrays nothing until his housekeeper calls out.

“I’m going to go, Mr. Pierce. Do you need anything before I leave?”

It waits until they have exchanged well wishes for the night, never looking away from Pierce. The front door closes behind the woman and they are left alone.

“Want some milk?” Pierce asks, clearly joking. His asset isn’t to indulge in such frivolous behaviour. Instead it waits for its handler to continue.

“The timetable has moved. Our window is limited.”

Pierce sips at his tall glass of milk, walking around the granite island to join it at the table.

“Two targets, Level Six. They already cost me Zola. I want confirmed death in ten hours.”

With a full squad to work with it is a simple mission, really. Only two targets, far below its last mission’s clearance level.

“Sorry, Mr. Pierce, I…I forgot my phone.”

The housekeeper appears in the doorway, wringing her hands as she nervously glances between her boss and the dark figure he is with. Pierce grimaces as he turns away from her.

“Oh, Renata. I wish you would have knocked.”

Picking up the gun sitting between them on the table, Pierce turns back to her and lets off two rounds aimed at her torso. She screams as she stumbles back, collapsing before blood begins to pool around her body. The sight doesn’t phase Pierce beyond a slight frown and a sigh.

“She’d just waxed the floors this week,” he laments. He then places the Glock back on the table and addresses his asset again.

“Wipe my prints off that then report to Rumlow. He’ll put together a team.”

It nods and leaves at the obvious dismissal because it trusts the orders given by its golden-haired handler.

Had for as long as it could remember.

Perhaps even longer than that.

⁂

Sitwell disappears after his lunch meeting. It knows the targets are responsible and it knows he would have given in to their questioning. Sitwell is fickle; it wouldn’t have taken much to loosen his tongue.

The surveillance team reports a sighting on a nearby building. The two targets and an unidentified third man have finished interrogating Sitwell, the four of them now headed towards SHIELD by car. They move into position to intercept their vehicle on the highway. It is to take the lead on the operation.

Waiting until the targets are directly ahead, it climbs out of the truck through the back door onto the roof and takes a running leap towards the car containing Sitwell. Landing on their roof, it wastes no time smashing through the window and grabbing hold of Sitwell, hurling him into an oncoming semi-truck—one less traitor for HYDRA to worry about. It then kneels and takes aim, shooting downwards through the roof of the car, a headshot each for the trio inside, mostly to put them off balance rather than kill them. It will not underestimate their abilities.

The car lurches to a sudden stop, flinging it bodily over the bonnet. It tucks its head to land on its reinforced shoulder, rolling until it can grab at the road with its metal hand, its fingers leaving deep scrapes through the concrete as it slides to a stop. It stands slowly, watching them watch it, biding time until the armoured vehicle closes the distance between them, ramming directly into the back of the car and forcing it forward. Its palm drags along the hood as it flips over the car again, grabbing hold of the roof to stabilise itself before reaching through the windshield in a spray of glass and ripping the steering wheel from the dashboard. Gunshots fire through the roof as it retreats, jumping back onto the armoured truck as the damaged car swerves unsteadily. Another ram sends it careening towards the cement road divider with enough force to flip the vehicle entirely. As it turns on its side, the passenger door flies off with all three occupants curled around each other on top of it, sliding along the road. The car continues flipping as the unknown black man tumbles off, rolling along the road while the other two hold on until the door slows to a stop. 

It jumps down from the hood of the truck as it breaks and is handed a Milkor MGL. It takes aim and fires a grenade directly at the targets. The woman flees—smart—while the enhanced man ducks behind the same metal disc from last night, using it like a shield. As expected, he is blown backwards on impact, hitting a stationary car behind him and flying over the edge of the bridge into the traffic below. 

Ignoring the chaotic sounds from underneath the bridge, it advances as its team fires at the other two targets. It launches another grenade at the vehicle the woman is hidden behind, forcing her over the divide where she dodges oncoming traffic. Maintaining its aim, it shoots again and sends a silver convertible into the air as she runs behind it, both her and the car flipping over the edge of the bridge. It’s handed an M4A1 rifle as it turns back to the side of the bridge the enhanced man disappeared over, surveying the scene where a bus has tipped on its side and the metal shield lays innocuously on the road beside it. As it is raising its scope to look further into the distance, it is interrupted by the woman who should be incapacitated. She fires upwards, a bullet cracking its goggles before it can duck for cover.

He rips them off. 

He breathes deeply.

That was too close.

He could have died.

She will die.

Standing again, he fires indiscriminately below him, fuelled purely by a burst of unexpected emotions, but she has already moved. She uses a tow truck for cover as they exchange shots before she retreats. 

“У меня есть ее. Найдите его.” [ _I have her. Find him._ ]

It isn’t until he jumps over the edge of the bridge and lands on the car below that he realises he wasn’t speaking English. He doesn’t let it concern him—he knows many languages, including Russian, he just confused them for a moment. Russian is how they begin his programming. Russian is his mother tongue. He must have been Russian once. It was Pierce who ordered him to default to English, so he will not do it again. His mistake will not impact the mission. 

He continues to move, stalking after the woman while his team go after the man. He launches a grenade at an incoming police car to stave off any interference, reloading as he looks for the target. Quietly, he manoeuvres between the abandoned vehicles as he listens. The sound of her whispering instructions, radioing in for backup, comes from a few cars over. He kneels down and rolls a hand grenade underneath the minivan in her direction and waits a beat as it explodes but there is no body in sight. Then he hears it—she’s behind him. Too late to deflect her attack, he turns as she kicks his weapon away while mounting his shoulder, pulling out a garrote wire that she wraps around his lower face that is still covered by his mask. His stirring of emotions shifts into something that feels familiar, but familiar to what exactly he doesn’t know. Just familiar.

Backing up to a car, he slams her against it before throwing her overhead to give himself a chance to retrieve the rifle. As he raises the weapon, she throws a small disc at his arm, short-circuiting its system with an electric shock as she makes her escape. He rips it away, clenching his fist to assess the damage and rotating the shoulder socket to realign the plates. She is running through civilians, yelling at them to get away while she moves in a straight line. He sees it for the tactful action it is; making herself an easier target so she doesn’t endanger them. And here he thought she was smart.

Silly girl.

The shot to her back should hit the middle of her spine but his hand wavers at the last second and it lands wide, in her left shoulder. The arm mustn’t be calibrated properly anymore. He circles around to her left and jumps on the hood of a car to finish the job, but that is when the man with the shield returns, running straight at him. He turns in time for his fist to connect with the shield, metal on metal clanging loudly and echoing off the cement walls around them, the reverberations running up his arm and into his chest. He knocks it aside, kicks the man’s torso and fires at him in quick succession. The target lifts the shield again where it remains in place, blocking his shots until he’s out of ammunition, then he rolls off the car and unholsters the Skorpion on his back, letting off a few rounds before it jams, leaving an opening long enough for the man to close the distance between them and kick it out of his hand. He recovers quickly, grabbing the Derringer from its place on his thigh, but the shield blocks the shots easily and the man lashes out with a punch to his temple. He’s able to grab the shield the next time it comes near him, using it to keep the target close then turning it to flip him in the air and take it from him entirely, hitting him square in the chest when he’s left defenceless. When the man charges at him again he throws it with enough force to decapitate him, but it is lodged in the door of a van when he dodges it and continues to come at him, fists flying. Knife out, they go at each other in hand-to-hand, evenly matched with power and reflexes no regular man could possess. His passing thought at their complementary enhancements is distracting, leaving him open to a punch in the face and a kick to the ribs that send him into the side of a van he is then rammed against with a flying knee to the chest. He blocks a hit and advances once more, frustrated at each punch that connects with his body.

He is the Asset, the Soldier.

He is the Fist of HYDRA. 

He is the greatest assassin of this century.

And yet here is this man proving himself an equal.

When he is flipped to the ground he is quick to stand and manages to wrap his metal fingers around the man’s vulnerable neck. It wouldn’t take much to end it like that but it feels incorrect somehow—not that it should matter to him—so he uses his grip to fling the target over the hood of a car and follows. He puts his fist through the cement of the road where the man’s head had been, then hits him with a few heavy punches to his side that the target struggles to block. He pulls out another knife, his attack deflected so it is embedded into the side of a van near the man’s head, dragged through the metal as they slide sideways. The man gets a hold of him around the waist and flips him, giving his target time enough to pull the shield out of the van’s back door and block his incoming attacks. His movements become sloppy, his knife slashing at air, and then the shield is jammed into his arm, cracking a plate, before it comes up under him to clip his chin.

It loosens his mask.

Then the man grabs him underneath his jaw and pulls, flipping him over his head in an impressive show of strength. 

As he rolls to minimise damage, the mask falls away completely. He turns back to the man to find him staring, mouth agape as he straightens slowly. It looks like he’s searching for something, an answer to a question only he knows. He looks shocked. He looks confused. He looks something akin to sad.

“Bucky?”

He ignores the niggling sense of unease at the back of his mind. He focuses on his mission. He doesn’t think, he just responds. 

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

He begins to raise his weapon but is hit from behind by the third man who soars in with a set of Falcon EXO-7 wings. Military grade. 

The army.

He was—

Or they were—

He stands and looks back at the golden-haired man.

Now he is the one confused. 

No.

His mission is to eliminate the targets.

He trusts his golden-haired handler.

This man is not Pierce.

He raises his weapon again but a projectile comes his way.

He runs.

He’s failed.

He’s so confused.

But the STRIKE team are on their way, sirens blaring. They will capture the targets at least. 

The red-haired woman.

The golden-haired man.

The man who fought like him, with the same enhanced strength and agility. With a reckless abandon that would get him killed one of these days, clenched fists raised and fury locked in his jaw. With a shield as his only defence. Without guns because that wasn’t his style, _I have you to watch my six, B_ —

No.

No.

No.

_Buck._

_Bucky._

Who the hell is Bucky?

⁂

They pick him up a few yards from the scene where he is tucked in the shadows of a building, staring at the red-bricked wall across from him, silent and unmoving. They forcibly shove him into the back of a truck to take him to the vault, guns in hand in case he lashes out. Because it’s been nearly three days now and he can feel his composure slipping away. It feels right somehow; like it’s happened before. He gets a flash of a scene where he’d been tranquillised after running off somewhere in Europe. To a street with a bar that wasn’t there anymore. Another instance in Texas, an assassination amidst a crowd of people waving familiar flags that reminded him of explosions—no, fireworks—and warm weather and a shy smile. 

Memories.

They were memories.

But he wasn’t supposed to remember anything.

He wasn’t supposed to think at all. 

They place him in the chair with the metal halo and begin repairing his arm. It sustained a lot of damage on the bridge. It had sustained a lot of damage many times. It used to be repaired by—

_“Sergeant Barnes.”_

He flinched at the image of a short man with wire-framed glasses and a soft-spoken voice. He blinked and he was gone.

He was in the vault.

He was being repaired.

_He was falling._

_He was falling from a train and someone was yelling._

_It was the man._

_“Bucky, no!”_

_It was him too._

_He was yelling._

_The snow-covered mountains surrounded him._

_He was waking up in the snow, pain overwhelming him as he was dragged away._

_These men were wearing Soviet uniforms._

_They were allies._

_He was safe._

_He was bleeding._

_His arm was gone._

_“The procedure has already started.”_

_They were surrounding him._

_They had a saw._

_He was screaming._

_“You are to be the new Fist of HYDRA.”_

_His arm was gone._

_His arm was metal._

_They had done this to him._

_What had they done to him?_

_“Put him on ice.”_

_A sudden wave of pain, a bone-deep chill._

His arm lashes out at the technician, who goes flying to the floor of the vault. The STRIKE team surrounding him all lift their weapons. 

He’s so confused.

He hears the man in the bowtie murmuring from the other side of the locked gate. 

“Sir, he’s unstable. Erratic.”

Pierce enters, gesturing for the guards to lower their weapons. This time he is dressed in a cleanly pressed suit, shirt crisp and tie perfectly even. _L_ _ookin’ real sharp, pal._

“Mission report.”

He hadn’t worn a suit that nice since the funeral.

Whose? He didn’t know. But he’d felt like he needed to look presentable for the occasion, out of respect. The service had been—

“Mission report, now.”

They’d been worried, afterwards, when no one could find him, find Ste—

Pierce backhands him, a swift hit to the cheek to snap him out of his dazed silence. He turns to his handler, meeting his stern gaze.

“The man on the bridge…” he says, his curiosity more pressing than his subservient impulses. “Who was he?”

“You met him earlier this week on another assignment,” Pierce explains.

He trusts him. He trusts his handler. But…

“I knew him,” he whispers, certain in a way he hasn’t felt before. It should be impossible but he knows. He _knows_ he’s right.

He watches as Pierce takes a seat in front of him, looking disappointed but resigned. He is asking questions. He is disagreeing. He sighs, knowing some kind of punishment will come. 

“Your work has been a gift to mankind,” Pierce begins, a calm and comforting expression gracing his weathered features. “You shaped the century. And I need you to do it one more time. Society’s at a tipping point between order and chaos. And tomorrow morning, we’re gonna give it a push. But, if you don’t do your part, I can’t do mine.”

Pierce pauses long enough to let the remorse swell inside him. He was guilty of disobeying, he was risking their entire operation. He was not being a good Asset for his handler.

“And HYDRA can’t give the world the freedom it deserves.”

_HYDRA._

He knows the name. But not just from recent memory; it tugs at the shadows in his mind like the enhanced man’s voice had. 

The man.

He meets Pierce’s gaze again.

“But I knew him,” he says, pleading with his handler to explain further. He needs to know. But that upsets Pierce, who sighs heavily and stands.

“Prep him,” he instructs as he turns away.

He will be sent out again, he will be sent to finish the job they started. He will be sent after the man again. He could feel his face fall at the mere thought of it. He didn’t understand.

“He’s been out of cryo freeze too long,” Bowtie warns. And it’s true. His mind is knitting itself back together every second. He could almost feel the physical sensation of his missing past returning, piece by fractured piece. It’s what let him worry over the man and their shared history he couldn’t remember. 

“Then wipe him and start over,” Pierce instructs, no room for arguments. 

He gives himself a moment to mourn for the mystery of who he once was, but lets the technicians guide him back into the chair, bracing himself for the pain he can’t quite recall but instinctively knows to expect. He accepts the bite guard they place between his teeth and lets the metal clamps grip his arms. His breathing picks up as the halo lowers itself, the plates already buzzing with electricity as it closes in on his face. 

He roars in pain as his brain is set alight.

⁂

It waits.

So far Project Insight is running smoothly and it's not needed. Its instructions are to stay hidden but alert. It will only step in if the targets make an appearance and try to stop the helicarriers from ascending. So it waits.

It is still waiting when it hears a message relayed throughout the entirety of the Triskelion.

“Attention all SHIELD agents. This is Steve Rogers.”

The voice is so familiar. It’s one of the targets, the man, it knows this. But the longer he speaks, the more the sound bothers it. There is something about the tone of his voice, steadfast and unwavering in his beliefs. The message so full of trust in the good of humanity overcoming the bad. He relays information about HYDRA and Pierce with barely suppressed anger and it can picture it, clear as day, the stubbornly set jaw of a soldier accompanied by the tragic eyes of a man betrayed. He’s rallying the troops, successfully at that. It can hear the beginnings of conflict, gunshots fired in the distance. SHIELD—the _real_ SHIELD—separating from its infiltrated factions, all in the name of freedom. All for one man. All for Steve Rogers.

There’s something fitting in that, it thinks. This isn’t the first time the man has done this. He’s clearly given more than one inspirational speech in his time.

It will work, like it always does.

 _Let’s hear it for_ —

He shakes off the thought and repeats his instructions. He is to move if the targets appear. He is to ensure the success of Project Insight. He is to listen to Pierce. He is a good Asset for his handler.

So he moves.

Getting caught in the crossfire of a fight happening in the storage base, he takes a moment to dispose of the SHIELD agents within sight while the helicarriers continue rising steadily. The targets will likely take them down from within so he needs to be ready; he needs to be up there.

By the time he is through SHIELD’s defences—mediocre at best in comparison to his own abilities, but time-consuming nonetheless—he is growling like a feral beast. He needs to rein it in, control his impulses. He needs to be at his best for what’s to come.

More SHIELD agents are preparing to take flight, pilots headed towards fighter aircrafts waiting out on the tarmac, headed upwards to try and stop the helicarriers. That can’t happen. He picks up one of the standard SHIELD M4A1 rifles with its M203 grenade launcher from the rack by the exit and aims at a jet already hovering in the air, shooting at its turbines and sending it crashing back to the ground. As chaos erupts before him, he continues to shoot at aircrafts before they have the chance to leave, taking out agents in the explosions. One agent gets brave and tries to approach, wielding a grenade, but he shoots him in the neck before he can throw it, picking up the grenade himself and tossing it in the closing door of a jet before the pilot even has the chance to sit. He blocks incoming fire with his arm, dispatching of two agents with a swift punch at one’s face followed by a heavy kick to the other’s torso that sends him flying back. Then he is running for one of the last undamaged aircrafts, a pilot already preparing for lift off when he climbs on top and shoots him through the canopy. Tearing off the side window, he settles into the second seat and takes over the controls. Once airborne, he spots the target leaping off the side of one of the helicarriers, caught by his flying companion who swoops in to stop him from plummeting to the ground.

How reckless to put your life in the hands of another.

_You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?_

Faith like that is foolish.

 _That little guy from Brooklyn_ —

He works alone.

Judging by the obvious damage to two of the three helicarriers, the pair must be headed for the final one so he flies overhead, leaping out of the jet as it glides over the aircraft and leaving it to crash into the Potomac below. He softens his landing with a roll then waits. He hears them land, bantering with each other as he edges around stacks of cargo until they’re within range. When the target appears before him he finds himself lashing out, brutal and instinctive instead of his usual strategic, controlled violence. He shoves the target through a metal rail, watching him tumble over the edge and grabbing hold of his partner’s wing before he can dive after him again. 

Because he will not fail this mission.

He flips through the air, dodging shots from the Falcon pilot and taking cover. When the man goes to fly after the target he shoots a grappling line through his right wing and yanks him back down. He rips the metal wing from the jetpack entirely then charges, kicking him over the edge as well.

Because he will not fail this mission.

And he does not feel guilt or regret over his actions.

He spares a glance for the fallen pilot, watching him release his parachute just in time to land safely on the ground, but his focus is on the target who’s managed to hold onto the side of the helicarrier and is climbing back up. He needs to get to him.

The control room is the obvious choice, where the target will likely try to access the system and prevent Project Insight from going forward. He is proven correct when the target enters not long after him, meeting his gaze steadily when the two of them come face to face on the metal runway. The red, white and blue suit he’s wearing with its obnoxious star in the centre of his chest matches the shield on his arm. The sight of them eat away at his concentration. He doesn’t know why it’s so distracting, it’s just a uniform, but he can’t seem to focus on anything but the conflicting emotions it’s bringing out in him. 

_You’re keeping the outfit, ri_ —

“People are gonna die, Buck.”

He tries to ignore the thoughts, the feelings, churning inside of him. The man’s voice is stern but pleading when he speaks, clearly dreading the fight to come. 

“I can’t let that happen.”

But the fight will come. This is his mission. He cannot fail.

He will not fail this mission.

“Please don’t make me do this,” the man begs, one last time, and when he gets no response his face hardens and he throws the shield.

He deflects the disc easily with his arm but it ends up back in the target’s hands, ready to block the shots he fires as the distance between them closes. They exchange a few blows before he has an opening, firing two round up underneath the shield at the target’s stomach, though the shots barely skim his ribs.

How could he miss at such close range?

The thought angers him, makes him careless, which results in him being hit by the metal disc hard enough to send him flying backwards. 

Maybe he’ll have better luck with a knife.

He pulls out a Gerber and approaches, determined to do some damage but apparently too angry to do much more than exchange blows and be sent stumbling away again. They meet and part, come together and separate, over and over, the target using each opening he can to access the control system. He’s trying to remove one of the chips.

But Project Insight must go ahead.

They meet again and fight with strength enough to cause his arm to recalibrate as he holds the man’s shield away from his face. He is forced back with a hard kick to the chest, giving the man time to try to replace a chip, but he returns and they fight once more. They are edging further away from the control system with each hit, again and again, evenly matched in a way he has trouble reconciling with. He’s supposed to be the best. Who is this man to challenge that fact?

With a harsh and guttural yell so unlike his usual state of composure, he forces both of them over the edge of the railing to the platform below. They engage again but the man is focused on going after the chip he’d dropped, grabbing at it as he slides away. 

He will not let him succeed. The chip ends up at the bottom of the helicarrier, clattering against the glass windows of the floor. So does he when the man kicks him off the platform. He takes a moment to recover, watching as the target lands in a crouch then runs for the chip. The man’s shield is lying nearby, so he throws it at him with as much force as he can muster while he unholsters a gun and takes aim. His shots are deflected by the shield he’d inadvertently returned to the target, so the next time it flies his way he makes sure to send it skyward. In the fight that ensues he lodges his knife in the man’s shoulder, and while he takes a couple headbutts from the man he’s able to scrabble for the chip the next time they separate. But just as he grabs hold of it he’s lifted in the air, like he weighs no more than a child, a strong hand wrapped around his throat that’s clearly capable of snapping his neck but instead readjusts its grip to flip him over onto his back and put him in an arm lock.

“Drop it,” the man says, tightening his hold.

He lashes out in a panic, swiping at the man’s face ineffectually.

“Drop it,” he repeats, dislocating his arm when he doesn’t listen, but even through his screaming he refuses to let go. 

The man flips them again, putting him in a chokehold this time. He has no leverage, can’t do much more than kick against the floor, especially not when the man manages to lock the enhanced arm under his knee. He struggles but knows unconsciousness is inevitable, he can only last so long without oxygen even with his capabilities.

While he comes to relatively quickly, the man is already making his way back up to the platform, his movements swift and measured. He gets off a shot to the targets thigh but he keeps going. He aims for his head next but the shot ends up wide, lodging in the muscle of his bicep. He blames it on fatigue. He would never miss a shot so drastically otherwise. His body isn’t cooperating.

His new injuries only slow the man down. He’s in the process of exchanging the chip when he fires again, at his spine in the hopes to paralyse him but ending up underneath his ribs. For a moment he thinks he’s stopped him but no.

The man did it.

He swapped the chips.

He has failed.

There’s a moment of silence before he hears the helicarriers hovering nearby begin to whir. He looks out to see them redirecting their barrels to aim at each other, then they begin to fire. 

And then he’s trapped.

The metal girder is too heavy for him to lift on his own. While he has failed the mission there is still time for him to get back to his handlers before he is damaged too greatly, if he could only free himself. When the man lands nearby he doesn’t pay him too much mind; he is clearly injured and has been mostly reactionary during their encounters. He is more focused on trying to slide out from under the debris pinning him down before the helicarrier crashes into the Potomac below. 

But then the man approaches, straining as he lifts the girder enough for him to escape.

And it makes no sense.

Why would he save him?

Why?

“You know me,” he insists, but he doesn’t, he doesn’t know him, Pierce told him—

_No, not without you!_

“NO, I DON’T!” he roars, using his metal arm to punch the stranger, he’s a stranger, he doesn’t know him outside of his mission, he doesn’t.

“Bucky. You’ve known me your whole life,” the man says and he’s lying, he has to be lying.

He hits him again.

“Your name if James Buchanan Barnes.”

_Sergeant._

_32557038._

_Buck._

“Shut up!”

He hits him again.

They’re both stumbling now, bleeding and out of breath. The man takes off his cowl and looks at him with an expression so melancholic it makes him pause.

“I’m not gonna fight you,” he sighs, dropping his shield through a gap in the glass flooring, where it disappears into the smoke below. 

It makes no sense. That’s bad strategy. Why would he dispose of his weapon like that? Who is this man? 

“You’re my friend,” he continues.

_You’re a punk._

_Jerk._

He charges at him, tackling him to the floor as he rears back.

“You’re my mission,” he growls and he hits him again.

He hits him again.

He hits him again.

Again.

Again.

“My!”

Again.

“Mission!”

Again.

He’s going to kill him, this stranger who doesn’t feel like a stranger but has to be, he has to be, otherwise it’s all been a lie.

“Then finish it,” the man murmurs through his spit lip. “Cause I’m with you to the end of the line.”

He can’t kill him.

He can’t.

Not him.

 _Steve_.

The helicarrier is crumbling, heavy debris smashing through the glass floor directly beneath them. He barely manages to grab hold of a beam to stop himself from falling while the man disappears from view, landing in the river amongst the wreckage. 

His body was limp.

He’ll drown.

_NO!_

He dives after him, blinking through the cloudy water until he catches a glimpse of his body and grabs a hold of him. He wades through the river, a tight hold on the man as he drags him to the muddy bank. 

There is an uneasiness inside of him, a feeling of worry, of dread that isn’t alleviated until he sees the man move, water spilling out of his mouth as his body attempts to clear his airways.

He will survive.

He’ll be okay.

He needs to leave.

He knows now, he knows they’ve been lying to him. He can’t let them take him back to Pierce, back to the vault, back to the chair.

No, he won’t allow it.

Limping heavily, he disappears from the scene, in no particular direction but away from here. It isn’t the first time he’s needed to do this; blending in is not uncommon for certain missions. He knows how to lay low. That’s what he’ll do for now. Just stay hidden until he can…

Until he can what?

Gather intel, he decides. That seems like a logical step.

But first he needs to hide.

**Author's Note:**

> Watch this space, my dudes...


End file.
